The trail, p.1
The Trail, page 1
THE TRAIL
M. A. HUNTER
CONTENTS
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Epilogue
More From M. A. Hunter
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by M. A. Hunter
The Murder List
About Boldwood Books
To all those who’ve underestimated me all my life:
The joke is on you!
If you see something, no you didn’t.
If you hear something, no you didn’t.
If someone calls your name – don’t look, run.
1
JESS
April 2023, Brighton, East Sussex
It’s been years since I had a formal job interview, but ultimately the role is to answer customers’ queries about their insurance policies. How hard can it be really? Ashley’s already warned me that there’s four weeks of classroom training before I’ll be unleashed into a live environment, so they can’t be too choosy about who they’re looking for. So long as I don’t drop an F-bomb halfway through the conversation, I should be fine.
The bus terminates at the station, and it takes me a moment to get my bearings, before I spot the large branded sign beyond the Jury’s Inn hotel. I’m just flattening out where my skirt has risen from being seated when a car bombs past, sending a tidal wave of puddle water over where I’m standing. I don’t move for what feels like an age.
This can’t be happening!
I hear a couple of faceless sniggers over my shoulder, and will myself to open my eyes and survey the damage. I can feel water dripping from my hair, and when I look at my salmon-coloured blouse I want to cry. The material is sodden with giant patches of mud stained through.
The car that caused this damage is nowhere in sight, but I silently offer a curse on their life, as I search for a window to assess my reflection. Noticing a hotel, I stop and head inside, making my way to the ladies’ toilets, but what I see is far worse than I imagined. The face looking back at me is older than I remember. The dark rings beneath the eyes, the crow’s feet pinching near the temple, and the chapped lips belong more to someone nearing middle age, instead of the sprightly woman struggling to find her place in the world. I pluck a grey hair which stands out against the backdrop of my otherwise darker mane. When did I get so old? Why do I feel as though half my life is already over?
When I picture myself, I’m still the awkward teenager who dreamed of writing Pulitzer material, thriving on a diet of coffee and intrigue. I’ve always been drawn to writing, even when it was only scribbled musings on Post-it notes, or embarrassing confessions in the diary I kept as a teenager. Writing is when I feel most like my true self. Growing up, Lois Lane was my hero, but where were the warnings about how tough it is to make it in the world of journalism? I interned for three whole years, waiting for my chance, only to lose out to a twenty-year-old former reality star. I’ve been writing freelance ever since, but editors aren’t interested in my theories on the parliamentary scandals. And to be honest, my heart isn’t in writing basic fluff pieces about local dog shows and art exhibitions. I want to use my natural investigative instinct to dig out hard truths and dark secrets, but I’m yet to stumble on anything I can get my teeth into.
At what point should one accept that the dream they’ve been striving for will permanently remain out of reach? How many times does ‘one more throw of the dice’ become flogging a dead horse?
Setting up the website seemed a good way of keeping myself writing amidst the slew of bar jobs, but unfortunately it doesn’t generate any money and almost as few stories. The contact form automatically pops up within fifteen seconds of the homepage being pinged, and doesn’t even require the user to leave their contact details, so they don’t feel scared to reach out. I clearly state I will protect the identity of my sources, as any good journalist would, but if I can’t lure readers to the site, how am I going to get any stories worth writing?
The last story I managed to get published involved a scandal at the town council where I was able to prove a string of backhanders had resulted in contracts being handed to out-of-town builders, but as soon as the story was printed, the newspaper was forced to print a retraction when my only source got cold feet. That particular editor has stopped responding to my emails. For all I know he’s shared his views with other editors and that’s why nobody wants to publish me now.
And that’s why I am standing in a bathroom, staring back at my dripping wet reflection. I don’t have time to go home to Hove and change and get back before the interview starts, and I don’t want to let Ashley down, so I’m just going to have to grin and bear it. With some dampened paper towels, I do my best to pick off the bits of leaves and twigs that have lodged themselves in the material of the jacket and in my hair.
Outside the hotel, a black cat scurries past, pausing momentarily to stare up at me with judgemental eyes, before hurrying away. I can never remember if black cats mean good luck or bad, not that I believe in such superstitions anyway. I still look like a drowned rat, but make my way towards the building, and try to ignore the curious look the guy behind the reception desk gives me when I tell him my name. I’ll just explain what happened to the interviewer, and that my decision to still turn up shows my resilience and good character. Let’s hope he believes me.
I take a seat in the waiting area, and have never felt so old. I’m one of six wearing guest passes, but the nervous expressions, acne breakouts, and expensive colognes scream of college graduation. When Ashley said the contact centre was packed with young minds, I didn’t realise she meant literally. But what I lack in youthful enthusiasm, I more than make up for in life experience (comparatively).
I type out a quick message to Ashley to thank her for everything and to reassure her that I’ve arrived and I’m ready to give it my all. She’s the only family I have left, and I won’t let her down. I know she’s due at the hospital for her six-month scan mid-morning so I’m not surprised when she doesn’t respond immediately. I know how lucky I am to have her on my side, even if boring accountant Roy thinks I’m taking advantage of his pregnant wife’s good nature. Overhearing them arguing this morning was cringe, and I hate that my staying at theirs last night has caused more trouble. Overdue rent: another reason why I need to get this job.
Where would I be if Ashley hadn’t offered me these clothes and cash for the bus? I owe her so much, and I know I need to start returning the kindness she’s shown me since…
I quickly shake my head to clear my mind: I can’t think about any of that now. For all his complaining, I know Roy had a point when he said it’s time I stopped focusing on the past, but it’s tough when I don’t have closure. I could have kissed Ashley when she said as much and reminded him how lucky they both are to have both parents alive and well. What do I have? An ex-husband who wilfully cheated on me and then filed for divorce last year, citing me as the problem; a landlord who calls round when he suspects I will be in pyjamas; and a website which costs more to run than generates any actual stories worth chasing. Most of the time the only messages I receive through the site are from spam bots offering to promote my site on their sites at a cost I can’t afford.
Ashley never knew what she wanted to do when we were growing up, and when she decided she wanted to move out of her parents’ bungalow she kind of fell into her position at the insurance company. Credit to her, she has earned three promotions in the last ten years and is highly regarded from what I understand. She’s right: twenty grand a year to answer the phone is twenty thousand reasons to make the most of the interview, and if I play it smart, I might be able to continue writing freelance in my spare time.
My phone pings with a notification, and I am grateful as it serves as a reminder to silence it before I’m called in. Expecting to see Ashley’s response to my own message, I’m confused when I see it’s actually a new anonymous message from my website, but it’s the subject line that leaves my mouth on the floor:
BODY FOUND IN THE APPALACHIANS
2
JESS
April 2023, Brighton, East Sussex
There is no text accompanying the note, save for a link to a website, which I eagerly click. My eyes skim the words of the article, already recognising what each means. It’s what I’ve been waiting to read for the last thirty year s, and even though it’s what I’ve been anticipating, I still can’t believe that they’re there, laid out in text.
‘Jess Grogan?’
I can’t tear my eyes from my phone’s screen, even though I hear my name being called.
‘Miss Jess Grogan?’ the voice calls again, and this time I force my eyes towards the sound.
‘Uh, yes,’ I say, searching for the person calling out to me. ‘I’m Jess Grogan.’
The young man in white shirt and navy tie is standing beyond the security barrier, glancing at the clipboard in his hand. ‘You’re Jess Grogan?’ he asks, catching my stare.
I stand, and nod, pocketing my phone in a swift action. He seems relieved to have found me, and strains a smile, nodding for me to approach the barrier, before stooping and scanning the security pass hanging from his neck. The machine beeps and he ushers me through. I oblige and the arm of the barrier drops beneath the weight of my thighs. My skirt has adhered itself to my legs, making walking more difficult.
He opens the large fire door through to the bank of lifts, and I catch the puzzled expression as I cross in front of him.
Ordinarily I’d try to crack a joke about swimming to the office to break the ice, but my head is all over the place. It can’t be a coincidence that a body has been discovered in the same region she went missing from. I need to read the article in full.
His brow furrows with empathy, and he calls for a lift.
‘Interviews are taking place on floor five,’ he tells me as the doors part and we step inside. ‘Would you like me to show you where you can… freshen up?’
I quickly shake my head, as there’s no saving the outfit now. It’ll cost a fortune to have it dry-cleaned.
I want to turn and bolt from the carriage, but as I’m about to step forward I picture Ashley’s face when she mentioned the bonus she’d receive for referring me for a role. The doors close, and the carriage begins to ascend. It isn’t too late to tell this guy I’ve made a mistake and need to leave, but I sense it won’t reflect well if I ask them to postpone the interview.
My choice is simple: hurry through it, or walk away and snub my best friend’s efforts.
It isn’t even a choice.
The doors part and I exit first. I spot a woman in a tabard emerging from what must be the ladies’ toilet, and I tell my escort I’ve changed my mind and will freshen up, ducking in through the door before he has a chance to argue. The doors to the two cubicles are both open and I’m relieved to be alone. I drop my bag on the counter beside the basins, and flatten my palms on the smooth ceramic, allowing my head to dip while I try to take calming breaths. The scent of disinfectant fills my nostrils, but beggars can’t be choosers. I need to get my shit together. If only I hadn’t checked my email.
I raise my eyes and stare back at the tired reflection of a woman who just needs a lucky break.
‘You can do this,’ I tell her quietly. She nods back at me, but I can see the doubt in the wrinkles of flesh above her nose.
My phone feels like it’s burning a hole in my pocket, and I cave, yanking it open, and unlock the screen. The bold letters of the headline stare back at me.
BODY FOUND IN THE APPALACHIANS
I spy today’s date in the top right-hand corner of the screen, but I don’t recognise the news outlet reporting the discovery. Must be some local East-Coast publication. There isn’t a great deal of detail, save for the fact that the discovery was made by a couple of thru-hikers who’d lost their bearings and inadvertently left the trail path. A mountain rescue team has been called to navigate the logistics of extracting the remains from the cavern where they were discovered.
I’m reading too much into it. The Appalachian Trail extends over two thousand miles from Georgia to Maine, crossing through fourteen states in all. Being such a vast area, people must go missing all the time.
It doesn’t mean it’s her.
My head snaps back up and I stare at the terrified woman facing me. There hasn’t been a single day when I haven’t imagined the moment I’d finally have closure, but I never pictured myself receiving the news in a musty toilet.
I flick back to the email message, looking for any clue as to who sent the link, but they’ve chosen not to reveal their identity. It was Bruce’s idea to include a bit about my mum’s disappearance on my website, but it’s been years since the site generated anything valuable. And why now, when I’m about to turn my back on journalism for the last time? I can’t help but feel the hand of fate – or something else – dragging me back to where I’m supposed to be.
Get your shit together!
I take a deep breath, and run the tap until the water warms, and then splash handfuls onto my cheeks, dabbing them with a paper towel.
It’s just an hour, and then I’ll be free.
I discard the damp paper towel in the bin, grab my bag and pull open the door. The floor I am then led to is open plan with pods of six desks where staff members are busy chatting into headsets. A rhythmic beat is drummed on keyboards as we move along the floor towards two closed doors at the end of the room. The blinds are drawn on the floor-to-ceiling windows, as if some great secret is hidden beyond.
‘This is your eleven o’clock,’ I hear, the words announced to those beyond the doors, before my name is added.
The room is about three metres wide and a couple of metres long, with a table in the centre, behind which sits a woman with a pointy nose and half-rimmed spectacles. She instantly reminds me of the school librarian who used to take pleasure in shushing me and my friends.
I smile as I force eye contact, but she doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, her gaze takes in my sodden appearance, but I don’t even try to explain. The guy beside her must be in his early fifties, his head shaved to hide the rapidly receding hairline. He nods for me to sit at the single chair across from them, a pen poised in his hand.
The guy clears his throat. ‘Welcome… Jessica, is it?’
‘Jess,’ I correct, but smile to show I’m used to the slip.
‘Ah, Jess, thank you,’ he says, scribbling a note on the pad before him. ‘I’m Mike, and this is my colleague, Sharon. We’re Recruitment Managers for the company, and the plan today is to ask you several competency-based questions to help us get an idea of who you are, and how you might fit in to the operation.’
Corporate speak – I detest it.
‘Can I get you something to drink before we begin?’ he asks.
The last thing I want is to drag this out any longer than necessary.
‘I’m not thirsty,’ I say, glancing up at the clock that hangs on the wall behind them. Frustratingly the hands don’t appear to be moving.
He glances at his colleague who offers a short nod, and then fixes me with a hard stare.
‘We’ll begin by looking at the CV you sent in with your application,’ she says, her accent a thick, nasal Northern Irish. ‘It says your current employer is the Sussex Express. Can you elaborate on what you do for them?’
Surely if they’ve read my CV they’d know the answer to that question, but I grind my teeth rather than react. ‘I’m a writer… well, a journalist. I write stories and articles for the newspaper.’
Her eyebrows rise. ‘Full-time?’
‘Freelance. I get paid by the word.’
